


down down down (hysteria is where i rest)

by therewasclavisbutfuckclavis



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, i dont know what im doing lets be real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-23 12:46:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3769090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therewasclavisbutfuckclavis/pseuds/therewasclavisbutfuckclavis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the door bursts open; bullets are flying;<br/>her heart is drumming in relentless abandon;<br/>blood is seeping; faster and faster;<br/>((she breathes the chaos into her existence))</p><p>this is what falling is like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	down down down (hysteria is where i rest)

**Author's Note:**

> i'm nervous as fudge posting. i'm sorry. fuck.

**[x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x]**

 

There was a shift beneath her step

And abruptly she was falling,

Falling, falling, falling,

Down.

Descending, descending, descending,

Into an abyss of darkness, flawed with no light.

And eventually, in her timeless free fall,

She wonders if the twilight burying itself within her sight,

Threatening to consume her mind to lunacy,

Is at a standstill as she drops,

Or if the world around her is slipping beyond starry eyes,

As she remains at a resolute impasse.

 

 

**[x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x]**

 

It's not something she notices right away, just a persistent itch that nestles itself uncomfortably behind the more concerning matters of her mind;

 

_Oh, she's gone._

 

And it's always been between missions; the stench of heated steel stinging her eyes, screeches of bullets shattering, depressed into metal; _**S**_ _ **haw** _ _would love the rush._

Or when she sees something relative to her partner; food; _she'd probably stuff that entire meal in her within 5 minutes._ Or dogs; _she'd probably chase after that lost one and want to find it's owner._

And constantly, without fail, she waits a good minute for her to reappear in a blaze of glory; guns, grenades, explosions, and with the heavy scent of destruction and death in her wake.

The natural grumpy pout will be on her face and she'll complain; ' _Saving myself, really? Do I have to do everything myself?'_

But when that minute's over, she's stuck in a cold reality, the raw truth that _**S** **h** **aw**_ really isn't going to return.

 

It's not a certainty she particular agrees with, so she tucks it back beneath layers of missions packed with violence and carnage.

 

**[x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x]**

 

She says it offhandedly one day, not specially with any thought, while mindlessly running short tasks on her laptop. She's barely paying attention to the silly argument Harold and his helper monkey were having over bear's toys, but the insistent chatter was beginning to grate on her already tired nerves.

 

" _Shaw's going to be furious if you get rid of the toys she got for him. Just let it be Harry."_

 

It's so careless, she herself, doesn't even notice what's left her mouth until the room goes quiet; a sudden stillness too hard to ignore. She looks up then, from her screen, eyes training themselves over to where the men are standing around the assortment of toys and Bear himself, both of them staring at her with a look of...

pity.

 

She's too familiar with it. It's the same expression in their eyes that they held for her that day when she had all but broken down at the loss of her _**god** _ within the warehouse that day. The place where she had pointed a gun at Harold and Shaw had shot her. The day when she had lost a piece of herself.

 

 _"Ms Groves.."_ Harold opens his mouth to speak, pausing for a second and it's within that time that Root thinks she really doesn't want to hear the end of his words. " _Ms Shaw isn't- "_

 

 _"I know."_ She lets out a heavy breath, (one she isn't aware she's holding), before nodding her head and turning back to her laptop, fingers thoughtlessly running along keys; _distractions._

 

_"I know."_

She repeats once more.

A shaky breath.

She ignores the way their eyes remain on her, as if waiting for her to crumble at any second.

 

She thinks now, with the identical looks marred across their features, that with Shaw gone, she can't blame them for viewing her that way.

The old bullet wound inflicted upon her shoulder from that day aches uncomfortably.

She's lost another piece.

 

**[x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x]**

 

Every other week she has one day off; usually Saturday. It's the one normality in her rather abnormal lifestyle, but honestly, if it were up to her, she wouldn't have any breaks, because ' _one can't just rest while the world needs saving' -_ but Sameen Shaw disagreed with that sentiment.

 

" _You won't exactly be of any use to anyone when your body's riddled with bullet holes will you?"_

 

Still, she was against the very idea of it. Samaritan was becoming a much bigger threat than before, so how could she possibly rest when things were getting worse in the background? Regardless, Sameen couldn't actually stop her anyways, so she continued on without break, the injuries and wear and tear of missions not so much as hindering her. Tiring, maybe, but never stopping her from getting jobs done.

 

But maybe it was that one particular day when the fatigue of everything had befallen her on a mission, her carelessness leading to a shot to the gut. It had seemed so insignificant at first, until she finished her initial task and looked down to see a pool of blood where a small blossoming red had been moments before She thinks, surely, if she hadn't dialed those numbers into her phone with her bloodied hands before passing out in some dark alley, she would never have woken up with a very murderous Sameen Shaw glaring at her.

 

She probably wouldn't have woken up at all.

 

That was the day Shaw had personally - (( _regardless of how much she refused to acknowledge the event afterwards)),_ spoken with the machine via leaving her, sleeping her injuries off at Shaw's apartment, to wander around the streets, staring at cameras and demanding **She** give Root breaks;

 

_'Without root - without your precious interface, you wouldn't even get half of your little missions done, let alone efficiency. So you need to let up and give her some rest days. It's either that or i handcuff her somewhere and neither of you will have a say in the matter.' -_

Is what the machine had later relayed to her after agreeing with Sameen's terms.

 

That was probably the closest she'd get from hearing Shaw say _I'm worried about you._ (( _even if she, herself, didn't personally say it to her_ ))

 

And now, even with her not presently around, (( _one day, just not today_ )), even though she knows she could, and **should** be working those missions, regardless of her health, she takes the time to sit still and wait patiently.

 

The silence is deafening, but she thinks Sameen would prefer it this way.

 

**[x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x]**

 

Months have passed now, she realizes, as she slides a lone finger over the counter top, collecting dust along the way. Distastefully, she stares at the table, then around the all too hushed apartment of one Sameen _Grey._

 

It's obvious no one's occupied the space for a while now, and that thought alone makes her heart ache uncomfortably. So, maybe in some form to occupy this distressing twinge beneath her chest, she decides on a whim, to clean the entire apartment up. Or rather, simply clear the dust away and make it seem as if it hasn't been empty for decades, is as much as she'll do.

 

Because even though there's dust aligning every corner - nearly every space of the apartment, she feels it'd be almost insulting to move anything out of place. Not the clothes thrown around in an obvious hurry, not the mug, now stained with month old coffee lying lone on the counter, not the blanket thrown haphazardly on the couch, and definitely not the empty magazines and disassembled guns on the coffee table.

 

It brings a small smile to her face, the very thought of Shaw in a rush to work, probably late without even realizing, before hastening her actions in a flurry of leaving her spare guns in disarray. The smile disappears, remembering how that last day of her being above ground had ended, the day she had to fade away once again, another identity lost.

 

She wonders how many more times Sameen _Shaw; -_ Sameen _Grey; -_ **Sameen** has to die before all of this comes to an end.

 

_Twice now._

She thinks bitterly,

_Nearly a third._

But not exactly.

 

**[x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x]**

 

She's bleeding heavily; warm, wet, maroon coating her hands, her fingers, collecting underneath her nails, staining her once grey shirt with a prominent damp mess, wound burning agonizingly beneath.

 

A stab wound, a deep laceration, she assesses bitterly.

 

_How careless._

 

Belittling herself, she tugs her lip between her teeth, biting down hard as if to alleviate the pain from the one draining her energy. A distraction. A bit silly, but she's too much of a nervous, panicked wreck to think of anything helpful at the moment.

 

Her hands fumble against her own skin, slick with blood, the thick smell of iron permeates the air around her as she presses shaking hands against her wound, wincing at the sheer burning sensation.

 

Bullets she could deal with. The destruction they littered upon her body were more aches than pain. Uncomfortable, throbbing aches. But stabs, cuts, any of the sorts, she had trouble with. They burned and seared, carved within her skin, demanding attention. They troubled her mind and left her in distressed states.

 

States that left her feeling too vulnerable, too useless, -

 _**too** _ _**human.** _

 

Her god can't stop the life violently draining from her body.

 

Desperately, she pulls one hand away from the injury, grasping at the medical kit she had managed to find, remembering the last place Shaw had tucked it aside after tending to her (( _after mission rewards!)),_ late one night.

 

A part of her wants to laugh, because of course even with Shaw gone, Root would still manage to make her way back here, trudging down three blocks in the dead of night, regardless of **the machine's** urgent suggestions of other abandoned homes.

 

_It's familiar._

 

She uses this as an excuse. In her current dilemma, she doesn't have the luxury of rationalizing her reasons as to why she'd rather risk coming back here when Samaritan could easily have surveillance. How convenient it would be for them to find her here, practically wrapped in a bow of injuries too threatening to resist against.

 

Sameen would kill her, but she can't have a say in the matter. Not when Root came on the single, solitary thought that by some will of a god that isn't hers, Shaw would be here. So no, Sameen Shaw has no right to be angry at her stupidity.

 

Not when she's the cause of it.

 

**[x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x]**

 

 _**"** _ _It's just a scratch, nothing to worry about."_

 

She tries to reassure the expression of worry settling in Finch's tired features - even John's usual stoic face is replaced with one of concern.

 

They make her insides churn relentlessly, and she pinpoints it down to feeling unease. She's not used to people actually _caring_ for her - especially not these two of all people.

 

_"I don't think a mere scratch requires medical attention and twelve stitches Ms Groves.."_

 

She shrugs carelessly, small abashed grin dancing playfully upon her lips. It gets her an exasperated sigh from the shorter man, his eyes running over her pointedly before he nods, as if confirming something she's not aware of.

 

 _"It's a good thing the machine warned us of your location or who knows what could have happened."_ There's a weary tone to his voice and Root feels the pangs of guilt, mixed with shame filling her.

 

It's then she remembers the hour, **** _ **the machine** _ relaying it quietly in her mind; 3 26AM, and she feels a throb of discomfort within her chest. A single look around the room is enough to confirm that the two had probably been alarmed and rushed in a hurry to retrieve her.

 

A bit warm, she thinks; the thought of them worried over her well-being and rushing to help. But then it leaves a cold dread running down her spine at the potential repercussions that could have come from her negligence.

 

Her alone being jeopardized was her own fault, sure, she was willing to accept whatever was to come for her stupidity, but the others? A part of her couldn't help but feel a bit of resentment towards _the machine._ How could she risk Reese and Finch's lives just for her, yet have no qualms with abandoning Shaw?

 

_"Ms Groves?"_

 

Snapping out of her reverie, she glances back at the two men from her seat within the subway car. Momentarily her eyes wander down to the deep bloody stains coating John's previously white, spotless dress shirt. She grimaces, wondering if it was from him carrying her or if he helped in the medical aiding they did while she was unconscious.

 

She figures it was another of Harold's _side helpers_ that stitched her up. She feels it's numbing effects and is a bit disappointed. Shaw would have made her go through it without any drugs to numb the pain, something or other about ' _dealing with it since you put yourself in that spot.'_

 

Maybe it was her masochistic streak. Or maybe she just missed Shaw too much.

 

" _Sorry Harry_ ." She smiles a bit sadly. Thoughts of Shaw were becoming much too frequent. _"I'm just a bit.."_ signaling her hands around her wounded area and head, she mentally releases a sigh of relief once he nods in understanding.

 

 _"Right, well. Mr Reese and i will take our leave now, considering the hour. I will be back in the morning, so if you do need anything please take no heed in calling."_ She waves as they leave, listening to the distant sounds of their footsteps before it all becomes muted.

 

She never did like it around here. She remembers too much as she looks around the underground base. Ever since Shaw had... _disappeared,_ Root had found it nearly impossible to stay here for too long. There were too many things that reminded her of Shaw, and she thinks now, even after months, she can still notice the scent of Shaw's usual perfume lingering on the cots and seats, where Shaw housed when she had been compromised.

 

It was probably punishment, having to stay here, at least until morning.

Her carelessness is what brought her here after all.

 

So she lays down, changing her opinion on the drugs now working their way into her system, numbing her body and mind to a slow relaxation.

 

She hopes that they'll allow her a sleep, not haunted by constant regrets and painful pasts.

 

**[x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x]**

 

Sometimes she dreams, dreams, dreams;

Of shots, of explosions, of destruction, of devastation,

Louder, louder, louder,

Of panic, of anguish, of misery, of torment,

Faster; swiftly; run, run, run.

(( _it's crashing. This is the end.))_

 

Sometimes she dreams, dreams, dreams;

Of Shaw, falling before her eyes;

Helplessly, she watches,

Hopelessly, she stares.

Shaw is;

Slipping, slipping, slipping,

From her grasp, from her side, from her life.

 

Hands grab her, hold her back. She's screaming till her throat is raw;

Pleading;

_((please, please, please, please, please))_

Doors are closing; shaw's on the ground, a gun at her head.

(( _ **please, please, please, please, please** _ ))

The elevator shuts; a shot rings out; harsh and lasting.

 

Sometimes she dreams, dreams, dreams;

Other times she doesn't.

 

She watches as the world before her slips beyond starry eyes.

She's on the fast track to ruin.

 

**[x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x]**

 

There was a sense of betrayal before it had reached it's end, always lingering in the back of her mind, how _the machine;_ **her god** had chosen to refuse to help her when she needed it most. Her faith was unyielding - resolute, but this time, waiting in muted reticence for words never willing to come, she feels it crumble to shambles.

 

The one time Root had asked for something in return for her loyalty, her **god** had repaid her with silence.

 

And so, in an act of defiance, a foolish, childish stamping of her feet, she cuts off her personal ties with the machine; her _oh so revered_ _**god.** _

 

She threw away the title of; _analog interface_ when _**she** _ had decided Sameen Shaw wasn't relevant enough to save.

 

**[x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x]**

 

Every so often there's a foreign prickle behind her ear, just short of her lobe. It doesn't hurt or cause any real sensation, but she runs her finger along the tarnished skin nonetheless; scarred and ruined by shaky hands long ago when she had deemed _ **the machine's** _ constant words a trigger closer to pushing her to insanity.

 

_**Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.** _

 

The machine had chanted to her over, and over, and over, and over, and over, yet still, with trembling hands and unsettled nerves, she had held the scalpel well enough to carve lines into her skin; strayed patterns etching red upon her limbs.

 

Over, and over, and over, and over.

 

Until the machine went silent.

 

She knows she only touched the surface. The machine; her former **god** had taken an understanding in knowing that the only way for her to stop the self inflicted pain, was to become mute.

 

The cochlear implant still laid beneath her skin; her lines of communication to _**the machine.** _

But never was a word spoken.

 

**[x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x]**

 

She had cut ties with Harold and Reese when she had decided to exile herself away from _**her god.** _ Perhaps exile wasn't the proper word to use, but it felt like it nowadays when she sat by herself in some lone cafe, the usual on her Saturdays off.

 

Away the from assignments, duties, _the team_ , Samaritan, _**the machine.** _

 

The days before her foreseen touch with lunacy, on her break days, the machine would detail tiny bits of information about the people around the cafes where she frequently spent her time. Enough to alleviate her boredom and take her mind off arduous thoughts.

 

A part of her missed it, if only to fill up her mind from wandering away.

 

But still, the sounds of the city moving around her is preferred over the static hums of the machine.

 

Even with the crying and screeching of a nearby baby.

The mirthful chatter from some teenagers waiting by the till.

Angry conversations being held by strangers beside her over the phone.

And the horns and rumblings of cars traversing by outside on the roads.

She thinks, it's a warm, comfortable feeling.

 

On her days off, she likes to pretend she lives a normal life.

Maybe not Samantha Groves, the little girl who died many years ago alongside the disappearance of her one and only friend, and death of her estranged mother,

And maybe not as Root, the pay for hire, (( _killer; hacker_ )) who held no qualms in causing destruction for her own benefit,

but as someone ordinary; simple.

 

If Shaw and the machine wanted her to charade herself in one day of normality,

She'd don a mask and play the part.

 

**[x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x]**

 

He's not happy, no. She's not surprised. She did get caught red-handed in the midst of attempting to kill his new _lady friend_.

 

But it was for the greater good - well no. Harold's attempt at trying to meet with his lady friend and advancing with his own plan; that was for the greater good.

(( _ **this was for her own selfish desires** _ ))

 

The thought didn't sit well with her.

 

Even if it would possibly help in their war against Samaritan, even if it would give them the upper hand overall; she wouldn't allow it. Couldn't accept it.

 

Hadn't Harold learned?

Nothing good ever comes out of self sacrifice.

((elevators; gunshots))

((falling, continuously falling))

 

She wonders though, as she stares down at him, his eyes holding a hidden rage she's never been confronted with; if he thinks she's as much of a hypocrite, as she feels.

Because wasn't it her, only months ago, who'd willingly, _reverently_ ; obey every word _the machine_ threw her way? Wasn't it she, whom had infiltrated Samaritan's servers by herself, in order to secure everyone's safety, all the while knowing she was most likely to give up her life along the way?

(( _but shaw had come. shaw had known_ ))

 

Martyrs.

Sacrifices.

 

With so many losses -

(( **too many losses** ))

\- she thinks such self sacrificing is the coward's way out.

 

_Maybe one day you'll understand._

 

She thinks it to herself, unable to speak the words out loud as she leaves him to his lonesome in the underground subway station; his back to her.

 

It's better this way. She knows; repeats it in her head as many times as she can, hoping one day she'll believe them. Because it _**has** _ to be. Samaritan's destruction, or Harold. Was there really a choice? Maybe when she was **Root;** the killer for hire; _the machine's_ analog interface;

maybe when she hadn't yet known that a death could haunt her;

maybe then she'd accept his sacrifice.

 

But now?

 

There's already been one sacrifice;

That was already too many.

 

**[x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x]**

 

The machine contacts her one day. It's not surprising, and she isn't so stubborn as to defy orders received; _this is a war after all._ But it does throw her off when she's startled awake by a piercing screech echoing in left ear, at nearly 2 in the morning.

 

 _"Really?"_ she mutters out with annoyance, rolling off of her bed into a sitting position off the side, bare feet touching the ground as she sighs and works the kinks out of her neck.

 

Ever since her attempts to balance ordinary life every once in a while outside of missions, she had decided upon renting out an apartment to call her own home. She didn't particularly like listening to the machine's idea of abandoned dwellings, nor did she want to invade on John and Finch too much by staying in the underground base. (( _shaw's ghost remained_ ))

 

Staying around Sameen _Grey'_ s empty apartment had crossed her mind, but she figured that was the worst idea of them all. So, she figured an apartment to call her own was the best. Her home was empty, it barely had anything personal, just necessities for a simple person.

She preferred it this way.

 

" _What is it this time?"_ she speaks out loud, a hint of sleep deprivation seeping from her tone as she tugs her leather jacket over her tank top, buttons up her jeans and reaches for the gun resting on her bedside table.

 

Silence.

 

It irks her.

 

 _"I really hope you didn't give me one of the most_ _**wonderful** _ _awakenings to date, only to -"_

 

The screech returns, louder; harsher, and she thinks it's punishment, as if she were being a disobedient child.

 

_**S.H.A.W** _

 

She freezes then, the scathing remarks she had on the tip of her tongue cooling down to a stilling silence.

 

This isn't what she was expecting at two in the morning.

 

**[x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x]**

 

**S. H. A. W.**

Over and over.

**S. H. A. W.**

 

A stagnant droning on, and on. Repetition taken to new heights, and Root would be beyond annoyed - irritated, even, at _the machine_ if the letters themselves weren't so important;

If they didn't hold the very weight of her entire world.

(( _not that shaw could ever know she was the foundation in which root's world stood_ ))

 

" _You have to tell me."_ She was sounding like a petulant child, muttering words of contempt and glaring at every camera she could come by, walking aimlessly away from her apartment. _The machine_ had yet to delve into any details or anything remotely useful since having awoken her; only repeating the same word every few minutes.

 

**S. H. A. W.**

Again.

**S. H. A. W.**

And again.

 

It was beyond frustrating at this point, she was finding it. Walking around in the cold night air, having no leads to go on, while being so close. It was cruel. She was beginning to wonder when her _**god** _ took such liberties to begin tormenting her.

 

Was this punishment from her once revered **god**?

 

 _"You can't keep doing this."_ it came out as a mere whisper; quiet and broken.

 

She stopped her travels, taking a seat on a bench close to the entrance of a currently deserted public park. It wasn't too far from her apartment, her aimless walking having not taken her too far. The cold chill of the night did nothing to numb her rattled nerves.

 

 _"Using her as bait to get my attention?"_ She laughs a mirthless laughter. " _A bit cruel, even for you I think."_

 

**S. H. A. W.**

 

Resigned, she sighed, standing up to leave for her home once again.

 

_"Yes, I know."_

 

**Soon.**

 

Her breath hitched as she stopped abruptly, eyes turning towards the closest street camera, the red light flickering slightly.

 

 _"Soon?"_ the light flicked; one, two, three; on and off.

 

**Yes.**

 

She wasn't on the best terms with the machine, and she was sure it wasn't happy with her more recent reckless goings with the missions, but now, at this moment; she saw it as her former **god** once again. The one she revered and praised with all her being.

 

The one she'd adhere to till the end of her days.

She'd cling on to this scarcely shrouded promise, disguised as hope.

 

**Soon.**

 

**[x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x]**

 

It's not within the next day. Nor the week. Not even the next month.

 

 _The machine_ had reopened their communication link within her cochlear implant, relaying her more frequent missions and tasks than before she had cut ties.(( _**and each time she had hoped they were reconnaissance for information on shaw** _ )) - they never were.

 

It's a bit troubling now, she thinks, with the constant barrage of missions going on. It's gotten to the point where her days off no longer exist. Instead, she's forced to go under different identities every day; a chef, an it, a waitress, a teacher; the list go on and on.

 

((sometimes she forgets who she is at times)) - (( **root? samantha groves? were they ever real?** ))

 

Every day it ended up with gunfire, the occasional explosions, swiping of mysterious items _the machine_ refused to inform her about, and wounds upon wounds scattered upon the thin lines of her fragile body. She aches and groans with every movement, her body yearning for rest yet her mind refusing to acknowledge such weakness.

 

And with the way things have been going lately, _the machine_ giving her short, curt words; less informal than before, she wonders if her god will even allow her a moments rest.

((she's too scared to hear an answer))

to call _the machine_ , merciless wouldn't be a stretch, but she refuses to believe her god has become as cruel and relentless as she had been prior.

 

If an **AI** , her _**god** _ , were the one to teach her humanity; to care for others. To respect every single human life with delicate hands, as her own;

Then what was she, with a ruthless, indifferent god?

((the very thought startles her with fear))

 

(( **gods can create monsters** ))

 

**[x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x]**

 

She stumbles upon an odd scene one day, quite literally; _stumbles_ , as she has trouble walking down the steps to their underground subway base, a long line of stitches hidden beneath her pant leg, on her inner thigh. (( _a number had the audacity to take a swipe at her with a hidden blade when she was innocently threatening him with a gun to follow her for his own protection.))_

 

Nonetheless, no one seems to notice as they're all too busy rallying around the base; Harold immersed in the subway car, eyes flickering from screen to screen, fingers typing rapidly. John's busy packing an arsenal into a black gym bag, and even Fusco's there, babbling into the other man's ear.

 

It's a rarity that no one has noticed her presence yet, even with the rugged noises she had created after thumping her shoulder against the wall to stop herself from colliding down the stairs. Reese usually has the ability to sense a pin dropping from a mile away.

 

It isn't until Bear jumps away from his curious sniffing around John and Fusco, that she's finally noticed, the canine running to her, nearly leaping at her as she enters the area, eyes now focused on her.

 

" _Why hello there._ ” Ignoring the look of surprise on the others faces, she kneels down before the dog, wincing slightly from her injury before scuffling Bear’s neck, receiving licks to the nose in return.

 

“ _Root?”_ She looks up at the sound of John’s voice, now stepping towards her, seemingly bewildered.

 

“ _What’s nutter butter doing here?”_ She rolls her eyes at Lionel’s tasteless nickname, standing up and ignoring Bear’s whines of abandonment.

 

“ _John. Lionel.”_ The fact that Harold hasn’t noticed her yet, doesn’t pass. “ _Is there a party I wasn’t invited to?”_ She grins playfully, eyes darting to the bag behind them on the table, littered with guns, grenades, and other violence around it.

 

Reese follows her sight, turning to look back at the items before shrugging.

 

“ _The usual mission.”_ She gives him a distasteful scrunch of her nose.

 

“ _Packing quite a bit for the usual, don’t you think?”_ He shrugs again nonchalantly, half grin on his lips, and she realizes then with a hefty sigh that there’s no way she’ll be getting anything useful out of the stoic man.

 

“ _Right, well we should- “_ Everyone turns to the sound of Harold's voice as he leaves the subway car, holding a briefcase in hand before he stops abruptly, eyes finding Root’s. “ _Ms Groves?”_

 

She takes a step forward, smile on her lips as Fusco and Reese leave to wander back towards the table, packing things up while whispering things to one another. Curiosity thrums through her, but she was never one to care much for the telling of those two anyways.

 

“ _Hello Harold. Quite a mission you guys are attending I assume?”_ He remains silent, staring. She begins to feel a bit unnerved at the piqued surprise behind his glasses.

“ _I mean, a mission where you’re heading in personally, and even getting Lionel to tag along? I’m a bit offended I wasn’t invited.”_ She says it teasingly, pausing as he clears his throat, a sign of discomfort.

 

“ _Yes, well, the machine informed us that you had taken quite the injury last night.”_ As if on cue, Bear takes this moment to walk by her legs, nudging her ever so slightly and causing her to flinch at the sharp pain that runs down her thigh.

 

The look of concern on Finch’s face forces her to swallow back the now worthless retort;

_I’m not too injured to help you save the world._

(( _ **she’s a liability now** _ ))

 

She feels useless, standing there as they hurry around her for the forthcoming mission. She even feels a bit bitter over it. She had been put out on missions by herself, the usual, but every once in a while she enjoyed the company of others. Even if it was John’s silence or Fusco’s annoying banter. And now when they’re heading out for what seems to be a big operation, she’s stuck on the side lines.

 

 _The machine_ had chosen a horribly specific time to give her the silent treatment; her curiosity knowing no bounds.

 

Maybe Harold notices, his eyes softening just slightly. Root thinks she doesn’t deserve it after all she’s put him through.

 

“ _You’ve been very busy recently Ms Groves.. I think you deserve a bit of rest today. We’ll be fine.”_

 

Reese and Lionel are heading towards the exit now, calling for Harold who appears hesitant on leaving. He’s looking as if he has something important to say, but it seems stuck in his throat.

She let’s him go.

 

Smiling a saccharine smile, Root speaks; “ _Okay Harry. You go on ahead. Be safe_ .” She pauses for a second, urging the hostility down into her depths, free from her tone. “ _Save the world.”_

 

He looks at her, confused for another second, before giving her a somewhat uneasy smile, awkward pat on the shoulder, and leaving.

 

Alone now in silence, save for Bear’s quiet snoring in his bed near the subway car, Root thinks she hasn’t felt more abandoned than now.

 

Something about the urgency in which they had all held in their actions while packing before leaving; the tension that seemed to follow with every word and movement;

((she feels a knotted dread in the pit of her stomach))

 

Why did it feel like they were leaving her behind for a reason?

Why did it feel like they were going to a war she wasn’t allowed to attend?

 

She inquires questions upon her god;

silence is her reward.

 

**[x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x]**

 

It's too quiet.

 

She decides this while sitting at the front of a bar, chatter surrounding her from all sides, invading her space and circling.

 

There's no low hum in her cochlear implant, no persistent calls from _team machine_ checking up on her.(( _they had started checking up on her every so often after the nonstop missions began to flood in_ ))

((harold says he's worried)) - (( **she thinks he's just suspicious** ))

 

Still, she sits by her lonesome, ignoring the stares burning into her back, and avoiding the words thrown her way as she orders another drink from a nervous looking bartender. She wonders if impatience and annoyance is showing on her face to receive such a reaction.

 

She isn't happy. She isn't relaxed.

She's restless. She's frustrated.

With _the machine._ With the situation.

With herself.

 

They're risking their lives at this very minute, and she's not there to help. She can barely even walk in her state, let alone shoot and hold out a mission. Their running head first into a war and she can't even be there to help. It bothers her to no extent, and she feels her sanity slipping away with each scathing shot down her throat. It settles in her stomach, keeping her flushed and light headed.

 

(( _she can't be in this state_ ))

 

She wants to forget her injury. She wants to forget feeling helpless. She wants to forget the missions. She wants to forget every scar on her body. She wants to forget this war. She wants to forget the team. She wants to forget her god. She wants to forget.

((she can't forget shaw)) - (( **never shaw** ))

 

She feels more than she sees or hears someone slide up beside her, a tone dripping seduction and everything she needs right now in a single sentence.

 

Taking another shot straight down, she turns and eyes them curiously, eyes shining with mischief, lips curling into an alluring smirk saved for one thing, and one thing only.

 

Alcohol and warm bodies were a perfect mix of ingredients for forgetting.

 

**[x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x]**

 

She's there, but _not exactly._

 

Hands are pressing into her hips, pushing her back against a rough surface; bricks maybe, she's not sure - (( _she doesn't care_ )). Urgent lips, rough and hurried are running themselves along every brief peek of skin beneath her shirt; she finds it messy and chaotic;

(( **like her state of mind** ))

 

They move upwards, seeking to capture her own and she lets out a haughty short laugh, her playful smirk dropping briefly; " _not earned._ " her voice is brittle like glass, coarse like gravel; breathless. She hears the other laugh, a twinkle in their eyes before they consent anyways and move away, back to the curve of her neck.

 

She thinks it's easy; her hands clinging onto their back, fingers twisting into their jacket as they continue their ministrations on her neck. She leans her head back against the wall behind her, allows the other more access as a curious hand strays from her hip, moving below the covers of her shirt, cool hands on her bare skin. She flinches but they don't pay it any mind.

 

((she's drowning. Nothing's right.))

 

Hands not her own, are moving, claiming, grabbing, wanting; and she thinks;

_Hell is where i am._

 

She's hot, burning, wanting, and needing; but not this;

_Never this._

 

(( _ **no. no. no. no.** _

_**this isn't what she wants** _

_**no. no. no. no.** _

_**this isn't who she wants**_ ))

Shaw. Shaw. Shaw. Shaw.

_Will you ever leave me alone?_

 

With a sobering mind, she pushes the other back roughly, hand pressing into their chest, earning a confused and somewhat irritated look.

 

" _Are you serious right now?"_

 

She smiles a sweet smile, laced with poison and tasting of hostility.

 

" _Sorry sweetie, you're not exactly what i want._ "

 

Offense reaches their eyes before a hand is promptly slapped against her cheek, and she laughs at the stinging numbness spreading itself on her reddening cheek as the other walks away, anger coming off of them in waves. She presses a cold hand to her cheek, winces slightly and runs her tongue along the metallic red trickling from a nick on her lips.

 

She laughs again, to the cold night air; it's sound bordering insanity;

A bit fragile,

A bit broken.

(( _ **l** **ike her** _ ))

 

Even with someone else desiring to provide her with what she wants and needs;

Her mind still wanders back to shaw.

 

(( **her heart still wanders back to shaw** ))

 

**[x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x]**

 

She gets a call at around 3am; her head pounding mercilessly, the intruding ring taking no pity upon her conflicted mind.

 

" _Hello?"_ her voice comes out as a croak, mouth tasting as if something had died in it, and briefly she remembers her time spent at the bar. It brings forth another insistent pounding to the forefront of her mind, so she chooses to ignore it; drowning it to aggravating white noise.

 

" _Root? You don't sound too good."_ She grins, dipped in mock pain, eyes shutting to a close as she rolls over in her bed onto her back.

 

" _Waking up at 3am does that to you."_ There's a short grunt at the other end, one she thinks is a laugh cut short.

 

It's an odd feeling; the normality of John Reese - John _Riley_ , calling her; them conversing at all.

 

 _"No, a_ _**hangover** _ _does that to you."_ She hums in agreement, not wanting to divulge much of her social and personal life to someone such as him. A part of her also didn't want to hear the judgement in his tone if he were to know about how the end of her evening _almost_ went.

 

Not that she's sure if he'd judge her anyways.

They were never close.

 

((shoot a few people together; cause explosions and destruction; sure.)) - ((talking personal lives? no thank you))

 

" _So, what's with the call?"_

 

There's a pause on the other end, and she's about one minute into thinking he'd hung up suddenly altogether till a voice peeks out.

 

" _The mission was kind of...hectic."_ She waits, hears familiar beeping on the other end before realizing that he's most likely in a hospital of sorts.

 

Her heart drops to her stomach.

 

" _Is Harold okay?"_

(( _are you okay?))_ too. Is also added somewhere within that question, but that's not something she can readily ask out loud to him.

 

" _Yeah. We're all fine. I'm in the hospital, bit of a scuffle. That's why I'm calling."_ She appreciates John Riley now, more than ever. The rushed way he speaks, not allowing a gap of silence to filter in between his sentence makes her believe he knows she doesn't want to ask the hushed question;

( _(what happened to you?_ ))

Because she isn't sure if she's allowed to ask such a thing, nor if he would even answer.

 

 _"I'm going to be out of commission for a while, and Fusco's stuck with paperwork for days after the latest incidents. So Harold's going to need some guarding."_ there's a hesitant pause. " _at a safe house."_

 

And immediately she feels a rush of panic because, why did Harold need to stay at one of their very few safe houses? What had happened to make it so he couldn't return to the supposedly safe underground base? It had so far been their primary haven, away from Samaritan's ever present eyes.

 

" _Oh."_ There's a quiet click in her left ear, the cochlear implant buzzing to life before there's a short hum of numbers and an address. " _Now?"_ and she isn't sure if she's asking John or _the machine_ , but they both answer a quick; " _yes."_

 

She feels a heavy weight placing itself upon her shoulders as an oddity blooms forth within her chest. She's not used to John asking and depending on her for help; especially not when it involves protecting his _boss;_ the one man she had once - _twice_ , kidnapped for her own selfish agenda.

 

How they had progressed.

 

There's a long pause of silence that follows, and Root's about to give a curt good-bye and head on her way out, until John speaks up once more, voice wavering slightly.

 

" _We stole something. Samaritan isn't too happy."_ She snorts because; _of course._

 

 _"Samaritan does like it's toys. It'll surely throw a tantrum."_ Absentmindedly she hums into her phone, trapped between her shoulder and her ear as she struggles to put clothes on, attempting to avoid her stitches, still raw and red. _"So,"_ She fixes her clothing, grabs a handgun (or two) off her dresser before heading towards the front door. " _What did you boys steal?"_

 

It's quiet once again for a much longer time, but Root pays it no mind, chalking it up to John's stint with the mission and injuries having keeping him occupied otherwise. Instead she listens to the soft beeping in the background as she begins her travels to the address she received from the machine.

 

" _Not what."_

 

" _Oh?"_

 

 _"Who."_ And as curious as Root gets, by the time his words reach her ears, he's mumbling something about having to go before the nurses and doctors get suspicious, but she feels a tension to his tone. She isn't sure, but it feels as if there's something he isn't - and _doesn't_ want to tell her.

 

So instead she asks the machine, but as per usual, she's met with silence; the gentle buzz of white noise having disappeared along with her call with John.

 

It's a horrible, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, being kept so deep in the dark that she isn't sure if anyone's willing to let her out anymore. Being the outcast; the loner. She thought she'd abandoned that side of her when she cut herself from _Samantha Groves._

 

Still, she thinks, with an hour ride away from the address given to her; she'll find out on her own soon enough.

 

**[x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x]**

 

She wonders if she'd done something explicitly offensive while the two were separated that day in order to have received such an expression Harold's face; he looked perturbed and angry.

 

" _Don't look_ _**too** _ _thrilled to see me Harry."_ she jokes humorously, borderline nervous.

 

Maybe he noticed in her tone or her body language, leaning up against the door to the safe house; literally in the middle of the woods. It used to be a summer cabin for some old friend of his or some other. He assured them it was most likely their safest place to hide if worse came to be.

That unnerved her.

 

" _How do you know about this place..?"_ It stung a bit.

 

She had known about the safe house, but Harold had never specifically told her the location. She wonders, for her own feeble pride, if he didn't tell anyone it's exact location at all to keep it under wraps. She hopes so.

 

" _Oh."_ He speaks again before she can reply, and she finds a certain bite in his next words. " _The machine. Of course."_

 

She wonders when Harold began to disagree with the very god he, himself created.

 

" _Did it tell you anything else?"_ He's looking at her strangely, gripping the door in his hand so tightly, Root wonders if she'll even be let in at this point.

 

" _She just gave me an address."_ Shrugging it off, she continues; " _John told me he's stuck in the hospital."_ The tense look disappears on Harold's face, replaced with one of discomfort and regret.

((she wonders what happened))

" _So I'll be your new guard dog for a while."_ She smiles, maybe too brightly, because Harold is giving her a tired look, as if suddenly the hours that had added up to 3am struck his bones. And now she's feeling like little, young, _Samantha Groves,_ again, waiting for approval.

 

" _Ms Groves..."_ His tone is a bit nervous, and that puts her on edge. She watches, curiously, as he takes a look back into the cabin before turning back to her, his expression unreadable. " _I'm not sure if now is a good time."_

 

She laughs shortly, breath coming out in white wisps to the cold air, true to the below average temperatures.

 

" _3AM in a forgotten cabin in the middle of the woods. Harry, I don't think there's a better time."_

 

She imagines a situation where Samaritan somehow, through some unknown power, finds the location and Harold is stuck alone, in the middle of nowhere, with no John, no Bear, no protection. He was never one for guns, let alone violence.

 

" _That may be true but.."_ His eyes wander back inside, and she releases a hefty sigh, slightly irritated by the current events. Her head still aches, the cold air sobering it marginally, she's freezing because - yes, middle of the woods! Thus, she really isn't in the mood to argue over such trivial matters.

 

So she says the one thing she's sure will make Finch accept, regardless of his needless apprehension.

 

" _For John then. He wants you safe Harold, and right now, I'm your best bet."_

 

He seems to resign, she notices, as he deflates slightly, looking older than usual as his knuckles lose the tension against the door and he pulls it back openly. It's then that she spots the shredded clothing of his pants, a bandage, stained in red wrapped around his good leg. (( _well, maybe not so much anymore))_

 

 _"They really did a number on you guys huh?"_ She steps in quietly, eyes stuck on the man before her, observing the various nicks and bruises spread along revealed skin. She frowns at a particularly nasty looking untended gash on his shoulder.

 

Heedlessly, she reaches forward, wanting to check the extent of it's damage, only to have Harold flinch away noticeably, forcing her to retract away; stung.

 

It was a bit silly of her to think they were going to be on perfect terms.

 

Standing in a suffocating silence, she takes the first step away, entering the cabin, (hearing him close the door behind her), and glancing around at the simplicity of it. Bare furniture, a kitchen area, a fireplace, three doors, one to the washroom, and the others she's not sure, but she figures they're bedrooms. In the corner, close to one lone window near the back, is a table; the contents of medical supplies, Harold's laptop along with a few scattered guns here and there.

 

She's a bit surprised honestly, seeing the weapons.

She wonders if the situation between _the machine_ and Samaritan is that bad now, or if John had left them here for Harold's sake.

((she thinks its a mix of both))

It makes her feel uneasy.

 

**[x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x]**

 

The next morning she awakens to her entire body stiff and aching, the couch in the main room having done more bad than good over night. The rampant drumming in her head, apparently trying to tear a hole in her head isn't helping matters, nor is the incredibly amplified loud tapping of Harold's fingers running on his laptop somewhere behind her.

 

She mumbles a quiet good morning, after having risen from the couch, blanket falling somewhere on the hardwood floors as she stretches, working the many kinks from her body.

 

She doesn't even get the comfort of the first five minutes of waking up, laying and enjoying the comfort of it, as Harold spouts out a list of things needed at a nearby - (well, closest city), a little whiles away to buy supplies for the upcoming week and perhaps beyond.

 

Within minutes she's given keys to a car she hadn't notice the night prior when she arrived, and rushed out the door.

 

Suspicion thrums through her after the events. Harold had seemed more tense than even last night, his words to rush her out the door only making her all the more curious. He hadn't even mentioned _who_ they had kidnapped exactly, and Root herself hadn't seen anyone else in the cabin save for them. Then again, she didn't wander outside of the main room. From what she knew, Harold occupied one of the rooms at night, and the other..well, she hadn't heard a sound from there.

 

Driving along to the city, the machine contacts her again, brief words; directions to avoid Samaritans operatives scattered around the highways, city, everywhere. She hopes that whatever it is that the team's stolen is worth all this trouble. The amount of operatives seems to have doubled, looking more aware than ever and for once in a long time,

((not since _**then** _ ))

root feels fear.

 

**[x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x]**

 

" _Do you know how to tend to wounds?"_

 

It's a question thrown out randomly within that same day, some time having passed. Root looks back at Harold from her position on the couch, her laptop resting on her knees. (she had picked it up on the way back in the city).

 

" _Do you need some medical assistance Harold?"_ She tries to keep the elation from her tone, feeling optimistic at the idea of him trusting her enough to help.

 

Lately, ever since the incident involving _his friend,_ things were a bit rocky between the two of them. It was almost like back in the day, (before Root had proven her loyalty and helpfulness to the team), when she had used everyone and done things only for her own agenda. Finch seemed more wary of her than usual, as if she was constantly holding a knife to his back.

 

" _No, not for me."_ He's busy typing away on his laptop, eyes leaving the screen briefly to glance back at her, a small furrow between his eyebrows. She thinks he's lying, the injuries from the night before flashing in her mind, but then she remembers;

 

" _Your guest?"_   She notes the hesitation before he nods. " _So they are here?"_ Another curt nod, his eyes pointing to the spare room. She hums quietly, if only to fill the ever constant stifling silence around them.  
She wonders exactly _who_ it is they kidnapped if they sustained injuries, and how important they must be if Harold wants them to be fixed up.

 

Thinking back on the _various impromptu_ lessons; (( _more so shaw lecturing her horrid patch working_ )); Shaw had repeated to her; annoyed every time, she wonders if she'll remember enough to be of any help. The extent of her lessons (( **lectures** )), usually ended up with nothing learned and a **very** angry Sameen.

 

There wasn't much experience to go on, her learning was only of what her injuries that Shaw had worked on were.

 

" _I know a thing or two."_ She shrugs it off, seeing the look of contemplation on his face.

 

It must have been quite the mission, _and the kidnapped_ , if Harold can't even call upon his anonymous doctor associates he'd taken favors from before many times.

 

" _It's not so much patching up wounds exactly"_ There's another hesitating frown." _The person, they've appeared to have been heavily drugged..."_ He's silent again, and she wants to laugh at the unspoken words in the air;

_And since you have experience with such things._

((because her stint with _**control** _ wasn't something worth mentioning))

 

But then she rolls his words around in her mind, now clear of the relentless pounding of the night before, and she thinks. Hard.

 

A mission kept under wraps, meant to be carried out without her even knowing.

One which John, Harold, and even Fusco all risked their lives on.

Silence from nearly everyone on the team; even the machine.

John personally asking for her assistance.

Harold bringing _them_ to the most unknown safe house available.

The person being heavily drugged?

Why would Samaritan drug one of their own people?

And -

_oh._

 

_**Oh.** _

 

She looks back at Harold with apparent understanding, because his expression morphs to one of almost guilt.

 

There's a strength in her voice that she wasn't sure would exist if this moment ever came to be.

 

" _You have Shaw."_

 

**[x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x]**

 

She wasn't sure how she'd feel when the time came; when she'd receive news that Shaw was _indeed_ alive, and _in fact_ , right here in the same place as she.

 

It was a scary thing; just thinking about it, because it meant believing in something that had the potential to crush your entire existence if it were to be proven wrong.

(( **walking a thin line between reality and insanity** ))

She thinks she had a home there once.

 

But now, with the confirmation of such things, all she feels is panic. All she tastes is bitter betrayal in her mouth and shards of broken trust down her throat, difficult to swallow. There's a harsh pull in her chest, and she excuses herself outside as she feels the colors bleeding from her eyes.

((everything's crashing))

(( _ **everything's breaking** _ ))

 

With rattled nerves, she breathes, in and out, _in and out_. Her back against the door is her only stability to this world, as she feels it collapse around her.

 

Shaw's alive.

Shaw's alive.

 

The ripples from the waves threaten to push her away with their force; into their rhythm; farther and farther; she feels the ground crumbling beneath her and thinks this is it. This is the end.

When an elevator closed and a gunshot rang out;

When **s** _ierra,_ **t** _ango,_ _**o**_ _scar,_ **p** _apa_ ; **stop;** were the only words her god gave her;

Root died long ago.

 

None of this could be real.

 

**[x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x]**

 

It's hours later, she feels, when she returns back inside. Harold has the modesty to not appear phased by her abrupt departure, and she thanks him silently.

 

 _"Can I see her?"_ She doesn't know why she's asking, but it's a reassurance of some kind. Seeing Harold nod feels like it's all the more _ **real** _ _;_ that Shaw really is alive.

 

And she affirms it with her very own eyes, standing in the doorway, too nervous to enter the room as she stares at the smaller, paler form of Sameen _Grey (_ _ **shaw** _ _),_ resting in a bed.

 

Sameen looks so much more fragile; so frail,

Root's scared that making a loud noise may just shatter her.

 

She takes a timid step forward, making sure not to cause a breach in the balance of silence, before taking another,and another until she's a mere step away from the bed; from _her_. She notes somewhere in the back of her mind that Harold's stopped typing on his laptop; can feel his eyes burning into her back.

 

Paying him no mind, she grabs a nearby chair, places it as close to the bed as possible before sitting down on it, eyes never leaving the smaller woman.

 

She aches to touch; to feel that Sameen _Grey (_ _ **shaw)** _ truly is alive; right here, before her, but she thinks otherwise. She looks peaceful, at the very least, aside from the many garish bruises, and scars; red and raw littered across her bare skin. There are cuts and tears in different areas of her clothing; and Root can see the telltale signs of puncture wounds running along her neck and arms.

 

It brings forth fire.

 

She thanks Harold once again, when she hears him resume his activities; agreeing to remain oblivious to her current state.

 

It's too personal, she thinks; this rage; violent and scathing, scorching off of her in surges. It's something she doesn't want him to see.

(( _doesn't want anybody to see_ ))

 

The thought of _Shaw_ being submitted to such tortures, causes her entire body to shake with an unbridled fury; wrapped in layers of resentment and madness. The pain and the suffering; she wonders how Sameen _Grey_ ( ** _shaw_** ) is alive and breathing.

 

She's relieved, and furious, unsure of which is holding more weight within her conflicted mind.

 

The relieved side wants to stay in this chair and watch, care, _protect_ , Shaw until she permits it, but the furious side wants her to run out, guns blazing, at every samaritan strong hold and give them as much grief and pain as they've proposed unto them.

 

For every new scar on Sameen Grey's ( _ **s** **haw's** _ ) body, she'll add as many bullets into Samaritan operatives.

 

**[x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x]**

 

People are scared of monsters. They abhor what they cannot comprehend; what they refuse to fathom. Instead; they deem them horrors; abnormalities tainted in sin; painting their own lies over hidden truths to feel less helpless. They want to perceive only what they can tolerate.

(( _it's a poorly constructed fabrication_ ))

What humans truly fear, what they truly hide from; is themselves.

(( _**gods can create monsters** _ ))

Yes,

But, so can humans.

 

Root understands this one day; red streaks of blood; hot; wet; drawn across her skin; down her chin, on her forehead; splattered on the canvas of her clothing. Her body burns with the need to destroy; to feel ruin down her throat with every breath, taste destruction on the roof of her mouth, devastate with every pull of her trigger.

 

Bodies are dropping; lives bleeding out on hard floors. There's screaming; yelling; panic and terror; discord against the background of explosions and shots filling the air in a suffocating bind.

(( _she thrives in it_ ))

 

The blood rushing through her pulsates with each bullet drawn into another body; electrifies with every draw of life draining through their wounds. She laughs, tasting hot metal mixed in maroon on her lips;

it echoes and resonates back, and Root is sure that's what lunacy sounds of.

 

She urges another pull of her finger, the shot meeting another Samaritan operative in the chest, and she can't be bothered with ethics as he drops, lifeless by her feet.

She shoots another two bullets in the body anyways.

 

There's another shout from behind her; the sound of stampeding feet rushing towards her, and she counts with unyielding excitement, how many more bodies will fall around her.

 

Twelve so far, with five more coming; seventeen total.

((but Sameen had twenty-two new scars on her arms alone))

She'd need more bodies to even out the score.

 

Leaning casually against a desk propped up beside a table, opposite of the door she was waiting to be stormed in through soon, she picks up a ht transceiver from a body; clicking it on to hear voices on the other end.

 

" _Through corridors A and D. I'll be waiting in room 2B_."

 

She's met with loud profanities spewing through before there's a loud impact against the steel door in front of her, punctuated with deafening shots and vehement shouts from the opposite side.She grins feral like, eyes shining with untamed malice as she takes her aim; trigger fingers itching with the desire to draw blood.

 

She can escape now, _the machine_ whispers it insistently into her cochlear implant, and she thinks she senses a hint of worried desperation. (( **but that's silly. emotions don't exist** )) There's another door that leads down an alleyway and into the public's eye, right next to her;

 

_100% chance of escape._

With only;

_48% chance of survival; 52% chance that she'll die before even taking one down with her._

When weighed against staying or confronting the men beating adamantly against the door.

 

Root runs her tongue against the nick on her lip, flinching at the pain and feeling it surge life into her already feverish veins. Her mind's a delusional wreck; _how enticing._

_((sure, she could get away)) -_

Her finger twitches on the trigger, and she notes that her hands are shaking; from excitement, or fear, she isn't sure; doesn't _**care** _. Her muscles are sore and aching; bristling with the yearning to pursuit carnage.

((but the thought of causing anarchy and death is so, _**so** _ much more appealing))

 

The door bursts open; bullets are flying;

Her heart is drumming in relentless abandon;

Blood is seeping; faster and faster;

((she breathes the chaos into her existence))

 

**This is what falling is like.**

 

**[x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x]**

 

**Falling is;**

The scent of pandemonium; _it ravages her blood with thunder,_

The taste of mayhem; _instilling bedlam within her lungs,_

(( _asphyxiate me more, and more_ ))

The state of disorder; _distorting depravity into her conscience,_

all she feels is reality slipping through futile grasps.

 

**Falling is;**

Waiting for the silence to break;

A tension wavers in the air; excessive, and heavy; it envelopes her; smothers the breath from chaste lips;

(( _**asphyxiate me more, and more, and more** _ ))

Anticipating the moment the pin drops and shatters the glass flooring beneath;

Plummeting; sinking; crashing down to a slow burn.

Fire raging within charred bones.

she smolders in an everlasting echo.

 

**Falling is;**

Having the colors blanched from trembling eyes; a monochrome dyed world;

Feeling her sanity deteriorate into hysteria; bordering lunacy;

Craving morality where it no longer exists.

(( **asphyxiate me until it's over** ))

and she can only take; take; take; pain and havoc; hand in hand.

 

 

_**Falling is;** _

drowning where her demons lie.

 

**[x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x]**

 

**Author's Note:**

> forgive me. also thanks for reading!


End file.
